Perspicacity

Came across this the other day, from the redoubtable Stephen Maturin, on a profession I know well:

Because, sir, teaching young gentlemen has a dismal effect on the soul. It exemplifies the badness of established, artificial authority. The pedagogue has almost absolute authority over his pupils: he often beats them and insensibly he loses the sense of respect due to them as fellow human beings. He does them harm, but the harm they do him is far greater. He may easily become the all-knowing tyrant, always right, always virtuous; in any event he perpetually associates with his inferiors, the king of his company; and in a surprisingly short time alas this brands him with the mark of Cain. Have you ever known a schoolmaster fit to associate with grown men? The Dear knows I never have. They are most horribly warped indeed.

Found myself laughing immoderately, as I so often do when reading the adventures of Aubrey and Maturin.

Killing Time

Quite pleased to have got a fair amount of reading done in KL, despite having to tend to the recreational needs of our house guests. Made a bit of a mistake though in not taking the necessary tomes with me to continue the great-sonnet-read-through. I'm not stalled exactly as I've moved on a little in the last couple of days, but just one sonnet a day would have been possible in KL and would have moved me beyond 100 which would have felt like real progress. As it is I'm not quite there yet - and the ones in the 90s make tough reading at times. So knotty, they seem to deliberately tie-up the reader.

As to why I didn't take them along - I didn't think I would get through that much of what I did have with me, so I thought it would be wastefully ambitious to take what I needed to continue my systematic reading of the sonnets, and I was wrong. Case in point: I sailed through P.D. James's The Murder Room in a couple of days, which was unexpected as I'd tried to read it earlier in the year (a copy from the library) and simply not made progress beyond the first sixty pages. The experience of just not being able to get along with a work at one point and then finding it extremely straightforward at another is a salutary reminder of what a genuinely individual experience real reading is. It can't be forced, though it can be persevered with. I remember having the same problem with an earlier Dalgliesh, The Black Tower, at one time thinking it unreadable. I suppose the challenge James poses is that of demanding a certain level of concentration to enter into the often closed, claustrophobic worlds in which her murders take place. You've got to want to solve the mystery (even if you never really do), to actively participate in the act of detection, for the novels to make sense.

Of course, when you do cross that boundary into the world offered you find one of the best ways you'll ever find of killing time.

More Listening

I forgot to mention the other day when detailing some of the cheap CDs I picked up in KL that I also got hold of a couple of Bowie albums bundled together at a reasonable price. I’m not sure what led someone to link the studio album Aladdin Sane with the sort of bootleg recording (from a radio broadcast, I think) David Bowie Live Santa Monica ’72 but in some ways it’s an inspired pairing since much of the studio album was written on the American tour partly documented in the live recording. The live band for the tour were essentially the Spiders from Mars band, augmented by the brilliant pianist Mike Garson, who’s all over the studio album – though you can hardly hear him live when the whole band is playing. So basically it’s the same musicians on each recording.

 

Aladdin Sane was one of the few Bowie albums I owned on vinyl – though somehow knowing them all intimately – and, curiously, it wasn’t a great favourite of mine. I thought of it as a bit of a let-down after Ziggy Stardust, despite loving the singles Jean Genie and Drive-In Saturday. At that time I thought it over-produced, though now I’m inclined to see it as a bit of an eclectic mess genuinely trying to capture the mess of Bowie and the band and America in that period. I get a sense of Bowie working at speed, just trying to keep up with his out of control talent and doing almost anything he wanted to musically.

 

The live album, in contrast, has been a bit of a revelation for me, and I find myself listening to it with enormous pleasure. The sound is great for a bootleg, but it’s still a shambles and there are some startling goofs from the players. All this counter-balanced by moments, nay minutes, of absolute full steam ahead, take no prisoners rock magic. The sequence of Moonage Daydream – John, I’m Only Dancing – Waiting For The Man – The Jean Genie – Suffragette City is a reminder of just how exciting Bowie was on stage in this period. (And what a phenomenal player Mick Ronson was.)

I don't exactly feel like a teenager listening to this, but it makes me glad I was once sixteen and had the chance to have my little life enhanced by the whole Ziggy Stardust bit.

How We Listened

Now back in Hall with the girls safely returned to their homes, I've had a little more time to explore some of the musical spoils recently acquired. Played all the Emmylou albums today, and very glad I did.

But following on yesterday's post I got to wondering how it was I acquired a reasonably wide acquaintance with the world of popular music in rock, folk and jazz terms when I was a youth since I owned so few albums of my own, prices being prohibitively expensive and my pockets lacking depth. I can remember, for example, agonising over whether to buy Steely Dan's Aja, and actually feeling a bit disappointed at first listen when I did buy it and didn't really get what Becker and Fagin were up to. The answer to the question isn't, or wasn't, the radio, by the way. There wasn't that much variety in programming. No, you got to hear things by either borrowing other people's albums (that's how I first heard The Beatles' Sergeant Peppers) or listening when people played them (which is how I first heard The White Album in its entirety.)

There are two things implied here. First of all, a reminder of how generous your mates were. After all, there was real risk in lending a piece of fragile, easily scratchable vinyl to a goonish teen. And it meant you had to do without the particular work when it was on loan. Secondly, people, at least the ones I knew, really listened hard when music was played purposefully to be shared. Case in point: I can count myself a real expert on all the early Dan albums: Can't Buy A Thrill; Countdown to Ecstasy; Pretzel Logic, Katy Lied; The Royal Scam, singing along to all with reasonable accuracy regarding the lyrics, arcane as they so often were - and not printed for the first three - and I think I know pretty much every note played. Yet, I never owned any until they were issued on CD in the late 80's and I don't recall borrowing them. They were simply there, in the air. A great band, and you just had to listen. Hard.

Going Cheap

Bought a few CDs whilst in KL. I only know of one shop there selling CDs these days, a small place in KLCC that only opened this year. Surprisingly it has survived so far, completely against the run of play, and sells an interesting, if limited, range of music. It seems to specialise, amongst other things, in cheapo re-issues from DG and other classical labels in its serious section and I picked up a cheap Mahler 4 (Abbado and the Vienna Phil) and collection of Satie shorts.

But the really, really bargain basement stuff came in the shape of collections of 5 albums of various singers or groups, on the Warner Brothers label, in no nonsense simple sleeves with none of the usual paraphernalia at just 50 ringgit a throw. Now in real money that's around 4 Sing dollars, or just a couple of quid per CD. I snaffled 5 early k.d. laing albums and a mid-career set of 5 by Emmylou Harris and, by gum, they sounded good. Country music at its finest, played with finesse, imagination and mountains of talent.

But here's the thing: How is it that I'm able to buy class material like this in 2013 at the same amount that lps cost when I first started buying them? (I'm not entirely sure, but I think albums were 2 pounds sterling each when I got my clammy hands on the first ELP offering - and, of course, that was when 2 pounds was 2 pounds: you could have a night out on a couple of quid and still have change.) I know the answer to the question has a lot to do with the demise of the CD and the easy availability of downloadable music, and the implications of this seem to me to be not entirely happy, indeed, far from such. I placed a very high value on that first ELP album, as I did on every record I owned because they cost so much. And I didn't have that much to choose from to listen to - because they cost so much. Now I have an astonishing abundance and even though I should know better I think I'm undervaluing it. I've only half listened once to the k.d. laing and Emmylou stuff since my purchase. In the old days I'd play a new album over and over for weeks at a time.

In The Crowd

Based on our experience yesterday of walking around Bukit Bintang in the late afternoon, if you asked me what people in KL do for Christmas Day I'd tell you they go shopping down town. The crowds were atrocious. The only respite was to get into a mall which didn't seem particularly popular such that things temporarily quietened down. The fifth floor of Lot 10 proved a bit of a haven for Noi and myself, though the girls clearly had a great time shopping with the masses in Times Square.

Young people seem to find crowds energising. I remember enjoying just walking around Manchester as a kid, happy to be away from home. Mind you, there were record shops and book shops then. Didn't see any yesterday, other than the tiny Borders in Times Square (which began as a mega-store occupying two floors, way back when.) Also thinking of The Jam's In The Crowd, which I happened to play in the car the other day in a brilliant live version from a more recent Paul Weller. Nice celebratory quality - as has Springsteen's Out On The Street.

I looked at quite a few faces yesterday and no one seemed terribly happy. But perhaps that's just the result of the concentration you need just to keep walking.

Another Green Christmas

You'd think that recalling the Christmases of childhood might induce melancholy in an old geezer like myself. Not so. I recall those times with great satisfaction, thinking of how the adults I was blessed to be surrounded by made so much of so little. By the way, there was just as much talk in those times about the season losing its true meaning as there is today. But true meaning is always the meaning you make, isn't it? I suppose we make less meaning as a community, being in thrall for all festivals to the Gods of Commerce, but once you turn your back on false gods it's surprising how much real meaning naturally emerges.
 
So what are we up to, in our attempt to make something of the day? The plan for the afternoon is to install the troops in Times Square. We did this a couple of days ago, but that was to abandon them to the joys of the indoor theme park, which they duly relished, especially now they are allowed on all the rides. However, they spent so long in there that they had no time for shopping and since the place has an abundance of cheap-looking shops that sell what I'm told are cheap clothes that appeal to teens it seems only right to take them back, let them loose, and stroll out into the surrounding area with Noi to take in the sights and sounds of a KL Christmas around Bukit Bintang.
 
Spent the morning finishing a good murder, which always seems appropriate for the season, cleaning around the house, in preparation for taking our leave tomorrow, munching chocolate chip cookies - which Mak Ndak had baked in the very early hours of the morning to keep the troops fed, and drinking tea. All highly satisfactory. Oh, and I received a splendid poem through e-mail, making meaning of the greenery of our Far Place, which was worth several reads.

And before the day ends I'll be ringing Maureen and John, hoping all is well with them. John's recent operation seems to have been a success and Maureen seems to have recovered from some recent ups and downs, so I'm hoping it'll be an upbeat conversation. Sometimes wishing folks a Happy Christmas can feel a little provisional given the struggles they might face, but what the heck - a Happy Christmas anyway to all.

Shelfies (Not Selfies)

 

 

Preferences can be revealing.

Laughing Out Loud

On two occasions yesterday I found myself literally laughing out loud - actually crying with laughter - whilst reading short stories. Implausibly both stories were by Kazuo Ishiguro, from his little collection Nocturnes. Who knew, eh?

Stories And Pain

There's a brilliant segment somewhere around the middle of Neil Gaiman's American Gods, one of the detachable segments entitled Coming To America, in this case given the date 1778 and featuring the enslaved twins Wututu and Agasu, which is so powerful it fairly burns off the page. It deals with something that only fiction can deal with in any sort of decent, honourable way, the pain of other people's lives, especially those whose lives have been extremely painful ones, partly by admitting that it's really impossible to 'deal with' such pain in any realistic sense.

Gaiman seems to me a bit of an on-off writer. When he's good, as he is in the segment referred to above, he's astonishing, but you have to deal with some fairly routine stuff to get to those patches. Fortunately there's always a tremendous narrative drive, even when you get a sense of something routine going-on and what's routine for this writer - I'm thinking of a sort of gothic attitudinising here - is never less than imaginatively engaging.

But I think it's that sense of the pain of others, the sometimes impossible demands of existence, that drives the fiction and is never far too far below whatever is going on at surface level. I'd also guess that Gaiman often doesn't quite know where his stories are going - much of American Gods feels improvisatory in that sense - and that leaves his fiction open to making the kind of discoveries that really hurt, even if the pain is only fictional. I've just finished a fairly battered copy of the author's preferred text of the novel, from the library at work - it seemed an appropriate way to read a story that itself seems fairly battered at times - and I know I'm scorched enough not to want to re-read any time soon. A good sign.